Mineral Point tribune. (Mineral Point, Wis.) 1869-1938, 1887-12-15
A MIYING cAMP PoSToFFIcE.
Tired Hen Walk Miles Through Snow for
Letters from Home

Letters from Home
It was Sunday evening in western
mining town, says correspondent of
The Kansas City journal, and the boys
were all in from tie neighboring camps
aud foothills TO get their mail. II had
besn cold cherries, wintry aay-but
what of that! No matter how hard the
storm and chilly the blast, the postofiice
in a mining region is a kind of Mecca to
which all eyes turn and all trails lead on
Sunday Many a time has a miner gone
ten and fifteen miles to the nearest post
office in the hope of getting a letter.
Possibly a lode was not looking very we'll
that week and the hope Of receiving a
letter vas about the only thing that was
cheering him up.
Strange isn't it how man will go to
the postoffice week after week, and though
getting nothing, will just as confidently
expect something by the next mail as
though he hadn't been waiting, posi-
bly, for mopthsg There are hundreds
there waiting for the opening of the post
office, and fall into two long lines, which
reach FIR ont into the street. 1t is mot
ly crowd, and in those lines you see men
whose locks are as white as the silyery
snow that is falling on them; men in the
prime of life. hale and vigorous, and
others, almost boys, all anxious for the
same thing letter or even paper from
home. And in that line you will see wom-
en-, not wives and mothers, for the camp
is new one, but women of the town; and
they too are hopeful of receiving letter
from someone. From whom They
oHly know, but possibly from loved ones
at home, who know not the kind of life
they are leading, for such instances are
old stories in the mining camp.
Anything for meg' is the oft repeated
question. And see each one intensely
watch the clerk hastily run through the
AS, BIS, or C's, etc, for the name.
"No, sir"
"Nothing?"
Nothing"
These are the answers most frequently
heard, and every time it is given sad
and csreworn face turns away from the
window. Look at his face, for il tells its
own story. And sometimes he will ask
the clerk to look again, for he almost
knows there must be something for him.
Nothing" again is the reply. The
miles of trudging through the snow over
the rough mountain trails had been in
vain. Blue and discouraged, he may be
found drunk III dance hall that night.
/ wonder if some eastern home had
thought of it in that light. There is a
young fellow. See, he smiles, too His
letter is a fat one. Three stamps on it.
The superscription is in woman's hand
writing. Now he gets off in corner
and reads. That letter is from his sweet
heart, and its contents he only will know.
That weatherbeaten face of his lights up
as bright as a May morning.
Nowhere are letters more appreciated
than in the mining camps. Men out west,
amid its exciting scenes, find it irksome
to pick up pen. They like the pick
and shovel, hammer and drill better, and
yet they are just as eager to receive let
tiers. They read and reread them by
their cabin fires far up amid the mount
ain peaks. Out on the cattle trails the
cowboys will often carry letters in their
pockets, and reread them on their long
drives from Texas to Montana. Down
in the mines, far under the ground, in
the tunnels, drifts, and crosscuts, they
will pull out old home letters, and by the
Pickering light of the lamps in their hats
re-read them. And while father and moth
er are often wondering why sons do not
write, their boys are eagerly looking for
letter and are rereading the last one
over and over again.